by Rick Mofina
His shoe moved. Didn’t it?
“That’s my son’s foot. That’s Zach!”
The sniper team in Reed’s chopper also locked on to Keller, his head bouncing in the scope’s cross-hairs.
Why was a rope tied to Keller’s ankle?
A Navy ship? No. Keller saw the markings. U.S. Coast Guard. The cutter appeared out of nowhere a few hundred yards ahead. Turning broadside. To block him!
“Edward Keller!” His name boomed out--a bullhorn?
He eased up on the throttle.
“FBI, Mr. Keller. Stop your craft now! I repeat, this is...”
“Movement under the tarp, sir,” a sniper reported to Shaw.
“Drop him a line, Fred,” Shaw ordered the negotiator.
The chopper tracked directly above Keller, matching his speed.
“Mr. Keller, we’re dropping a phone to you now.”
A line with a padded bag at the end of it was paid out from the chopper, landing safely on Keller’s deck. The rope slackened, collapsing on him like netting. Keller shrugged it off, then tossed the bag into the ocean.
The noise was frightening, hurting his ears, but Zach realized police were trying to save them, and worked even harder at the rope. Gabrielle and Danny watched frozen in fear, hands over their ears.
Come on! Zach’s fingers and wrist ached as he sawed.
Keller vanished from the sniper’s scopes.
Slamming the throttle down, twin engines growling, the boat veered south, cutting a magnificent white-capped swath as crosswinds swept the tarp back revealing everything: the children, the ropes, the cinder blocks.
Shaw’s throat tightened.
“Get on him now! We’re going to take him out! Warn him, Fred!”
“Mr. Keller, surrender now or you will be fired upon!”
Shaw ordered the sniper teams in both choppers, and those on the Coast Guard cutter, to lock on Keller. He turned to his three-member assault team. They would be first in the water for a rescue in advance of the guard’s chopper.
“Move in everybody! Now! Now! I want him now!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Shaw saw them. Four of them! And two more coming in the distance. News helicopters hovering over the scene. He’d be damned if they were going to see dead kids on the news! He went on his intercom to Agent Fred Wheeler.
“Fred, get on the same frequency as the press pilots. Tell them to back off. This airspace is sealed for two miles!”
It was too late. The entire drama was unfolding live on every U.S. network. The parents of the children watched on TV monitors set up for them by news crews outside Keller’s house in San Francisco. Cameras trained on them provided live reaction.
“Put a warning shot in his quarterdeck,” Shaw ordered.
“I got it,” answered Agent Lyle Bond, a sniper on the second chopper with Reed.
“Take it, Lyle, go!” Shaw said.
Bond’s marksmanship scores were in the FBI’s top one percent. Keller’s boat swayed gently within Bond’s scope as he stayed with him, partners in a tragic ballet, waiting for the precise moment--there it was--Bond squeezed his trigger.
The round ripped through the deck of Keller’s boat like a sledgehammer, shattering the hull below, leaving a baseball-sized hole inches from his foot. He began taking on water.
“Mr. Keller stop your craft now!!”
Keller yanked on the throttle, killing the Mercs, stopping the boat, his own hissing wake washing around him, water rushing in through the gap in the hull.
The choppers were pounding.
Whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop.
In one smooth motion, Keller tossed Zach overboard, then Gabrielle, then Danny. The long yellow ropes attached to their ankles slithered prettily on the surface.
The children thrashing.
Screaming.
Jaws dropped.
Eyes widened in horror.
Reed watched from the helicopter.
The other parents watched the TV monitors at the house.
Fast. It was unfolding too fast.
“My God! I can’t believe this!” one network anchor’s voice broke across the nation.
In a heartbeat, the two FBI helicopters swooped in--taking their points starboard and portside--locking on Keller as he muscled the cement blocks overboard.
“Green light! Green!” Shaw ordered. “Take him in the boat!”
Bullets rained on Keller, smashing into the boat, into him. A round passed through his right thigh, another exploded in his shoulder, a third grazed his skull as he dove into the water, disappearing beneath the surface.
Zach treaded water rapidly, witnessing the scene, unable to find Danny and Gabrielle. The noise, the surface spray was overwhelming. The choppers moved. So close, he can almost touch--
“Help!”
Instantly the blocks jerked violently at his ankle, dragging him under with Danny and Gabrielle...water bubbling, rushing past, filling his ears, mouth...until the tension overcame the point where he had cut the rope, forcing it to snap, freeing all three children twenty feet beneath the surface.
Keller remained tied to the blocks, plummeting feet first, crimson bubbles trailing his descent. Dazed from his wounds, he tilted his head, his lungs filling with water, losing time, lost in time as he gazed into the light. The children were silhouetted against the sun -- floating, flying in the resplendent waters.
Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus.
Then it happened. As ordained by God.
The sky above, heaven above, blossoming...
Once. Twice. Three times.
Three beings, celestial entities summoned from eternity, each gliding, floating to each child, taking them to their breasts, severing their lines to him...the brilliant yellow rope floating away. He grew deeply tired, watching them ascend with the children, to the sun, to God.
He was forgiven.
He was at peace.
EIGHTY
The shake was strawberry, Zach Reed’s favorite. He sat up in the hospital bed to take it from his father.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Zach’s mother continued stroking his hair. She had never left his side once the doctors and the psychiatrist finished looking at him. Danny and Gabrielle were across the hall with their parents. Every now and then, they could be heard laughing, along with the sound of Gabrielle’s cocker spaniel barking.
“The children are fine. They’ve suffered some shock, exhaustion, dehydration,” one of the doctors told Ann and Tom. “We want them to eat. At this stage, pizzas, burgers, shakes, and fries are good medicine.” He winked at Zach, adding, “We’ll have them spend the night here resting. Let him sleep naturally when he gets drowsy. And Dr. Martin’s available anytime, if anybody wants to talk some more.”
The doctor left, closing the door softly.
“Everything’s going to be okay, right?” Zach said.
“Sure, honey.” His mother brushed his cheek.
Zach set his shake aside and bit his lip, worried about the fallout for breaking all the rules, for talking to that psycho doof, believing his lies. Still a little juiced from everything, he thought about how cool it was going to be telling Jeff and Gordie about the choppers. But the idea went away. He had almost drowned. He was still frightened. And there were a lot of other things. Things he couldn’t understand. That nice lady doctor, the psychiatrist, Dr. Kate whom Dad knew, said she could help with that when they talked some more. She actually knew the creep and promised to answer all the questions she could. She was smart. Even after their short talk, she seemed to know what was going on with Zach. She didn’t get him wrong. He was happy, but he was still a little scared; scared about his mom, his dad. Everything. Well, Doc Kate wanted him to talk about it with his folks, so here goes: “I mean, I’m sorry about all this mess, for running away from Grandma’s, getting in that creep’s van. I made a mistake.”
“Oh, sweetie.” His mother crushed him in her arms.
“Zach, it’s not your fault.” His dad s
miled. “You did good, calling me like you did, son. Very good.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“No.” Ann touched her eyes with a crumpled tissue.
He stared at his parents. They looked different, older, relieved, like something had been decided.
“So, are we going to talk about living together again?”
“I don’t think so.” Ann reached across the bed, taking Tom’s hand, fingering his wedding band, looking into his eyes. “I don’t think we need to talk anymore. I think it’s settled.”
“We’re all moving back to our house? Together?” Zach said.
“Yes.” Ann smiled.
Zach hugged them.
“Hey,” Reed told him, “we’ll let you in on a secret. The President is going to be calling from the White House later.”
“The President? No way!”
“Come here.” Reed took Zach to the hospital window. TV satellite trucks and news crews jammed the parking lot below.
“You’re big news, Zach.”
“Awe-Some! Wait ’til I tell Jeff and Gordie!”
A quick knock on the door. It was SFPD Inspector Linda Turgeon. “Sorry to interrupt. Could I see you, Tom, about your statement?” She smiled at Ann and Zach. “How you doin’, sport?”
“Good. Great, actually.” He sucked on his shake.
Outside in the hall, Reed and Turgeon talked in a quiet alcove. A news conference with the children, parents, and police was set for the hospital’s lecture room in ninety minutes. And tomorrow, Reed was to go to the Hall of Justice, to give his statement on the case.
No problem. He took Turgeon’s hand.
“Thank you, everybody, the FBI, the task force. Thank you.”
“You and Zach helped break this.”
“Where’s Sydowski? I’d like to see him.”
“He wants to see you, too. Downstairs in the coffee shop.”
Heading downstairs, Reed passed Danny’s and Gabrielle’s rooms, smiling at the joy, the relief flooding the hallway. Professor Martin waved at him from Danny’s room. The uniformed officers standing guard outside grinned at Reed, slapping his back.
Downstairs, he met Molly Wilson coming from the gift shop with balloons. She threw her arms around him, her bracelets chiming.
“Tom! Oh, Tom. I’m so glad it all worked out!”
“Yeah, yeah, me, too.” He stepped back, gazing into her blue eyes. “Everything worked out the way it was supposed to.”
She smiled her perfect-teeth smile. “That’s good.”
“You here working, Wilson?”
“Yes, but--” She remembered she had a bouquet of oversized balloons. “These are for Zach.”
Reed stared at them, then Wilson, saying nothing. Thinking.
“Maybe I’ll just have them sent up,” she said.
“Wait for me here. You can give them to Zach yourself.”
“Sure.”
“And I suppose you would like an exclusive chat with him?”
“Yes, I would, if it’s alright?”
“Let me talk with Ann. I think it would be fine.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
“Molly, I appreciate what you did back in the newsroom. Getting Tellwood’s help when I needed it.” Reed turned to leave.
“Tom, are you coming back to the paper? Tellwood’s left the door open for you and Benson is gone.”
“I don’t know. I need time to think things through.”
Reed found Sydowski alone, huddled over a coffee, peering through his bifocals at bird show brochures.
“Well, well: Tom Reed. My favorite boychik.”
“Why you hiding out?”
“Reporters are dangerous to my health.”
Reed saw the gold in Sydowski’s smile and it was like the stuff a year ago never happened. He sat across from him, looking him in the eye. “Thank you, Walt. Thank you for everything.”
“No need to thank me.”
“And, I wanted to apologize for the mess with Franklin Wallace in the Tanita Marie Donner case. I was wrong.”
Sydowski shook his head, sipping some coffee. “You were never wrong,” he said.
“But, Virgil Shook was the guy, Wallace had nothing to do--”
“You were half right at the time. But we could never tell you. I wanted to, but we couldn’t tell anybody.”
“Wallace was involved?”
“Yes. But Shook killed her. You scared the crap out of us digging up what you did. You didn’t know that it was Shook who tipped you to Wallace, thinking we would put it all on Wallace. We knew Wallace was involved, but he wasn’t alone. We needed him to bring us his partner, who turned out to be Shook.”
“So you let me hang, the disgrace, the lawsuit?”
“It hurt me seeing you go through what you did, but you hanged yourself, Tom. I told you to sit on your stuff.”
“Wasn’t Shook afraid Wallace would roll on him?”
“No. Shook dominated him psychologically. Fed him crap, faked his own suicide over the phone to Wallace. That’s what did it, left him thinking we were coming for him. And when you got there first, well, that closed the lid on his casket. Shook was a clever bastard.”
“What about Keller?”
“What can I tell you? You knew him as well as anyone. You practically solved the case, but I’ll deny I ever said that.” Reed chuckled.
Sydowski continued. “Edward died at the bottom of the Pacific, like he wanted. Now he’s on a slab in the hospital basement, out of his misery, like Shook. And you know what? The world feels a little lighter without the burden of their presence.”
“Feel a song coming on there, Walt?”
Sydowski downed his coffee, tossing the paper cup in the trash.
“Maybe. I got to check on my old man, head home, feed my birds. Why not drop by some time, Reed? I’ll get some fresh kielbasa, some egg bread, sweet butter. And you can buy the beer.”
“I think you owe me. I’m solving your cases for you.”
“Listen, you’re still young. It’s not too late for you to join the SFPD. I’d put in a word for you. You think you can cut it?”
“Naw, I like being a hack. I like living dangerously.”
“You want danger? Let my old man give you a shave and haircut.”
Sydowski clasped Reed’s shoulder warmly.
“Love your family, Tom.”
Before heading upstairs, Reed stepped into a washroom to cleanse his face. He was haggard; he needed a shower, a shave. Parts of him were still tingling. He had come so close to losing it all.
And he would have done anything...
Like Keller?
“...eyes that haunt my dreams...”
Reed knew he would never be the same.
He had been given a second chance.
To the memory of my mother
For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world….
--Ephesians 6:12
Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind….
--Third Part of King Henry VI, Act V, Scene VI, William Shakespeare
How It Began
The last thing Paige Baker saw before fleeing her family’s campsite was the blood dripping from her father’s ax.
Her parents had just had an argument, ending with her mom stomping off and Paige scrambling with her dog for the shelter of her tent while her father savagely chopped wood.
Inside the tent, Paige wept at the thud-thud-thud of his wrath, logs cleaving, splintering. She tried to calm herself, think of ways to make it better for her parents. But what was a ten-year-old kid supposed to do?
Find her mom, talk to her? Paige began jamming things in her backpack. Her family was falling apart. She was helpless. Maybe she should try talking to her dad.
Somehow she summoned the courage to approach her father, emerging from her tent, inching toward him with Kobee, her beagle, in her arms.
“Daddy?”
>
No answer. His muscles contracted as he chopped. Sweat dropped from his face, darkly blotching the neck and underarms of his gray U.S. Marines T-shirt.
Thud-thud-thud.
“Daddy. Please. I need to talk to you.”
“Get the hell away from me and go find your damned mother!”
His fury terrified her. Kobee yelped. She hugged him tighter, standing before her father.
“Please…I need to talk….”
He steadied a log upright with his left hand, swinging the ax with his right hand.
“Daddy!”
Her pleading distracting him, the ax slipped, the blade struck his hand, blood spurted. He cursed, then without warning charged at her still gripping the ax, blood webbing down the handle.
“I told you to get the hell out of my face now, goddamn it! Go see your mother!”
Paige squealed, bolting with Kobee on his leash, items spilling from her backpack as she ran down the dark wooded trail, her heart breaking. She had never ever seen her dad like this before.
Later, Paige slowed down on the trail, halfway to where she figured her mother was. Her tears ceased when she was startled by a chipmunk. She gasped. It pinballed from a rock, to a log, to a rock, disappearing into the woods. Kobee spotted it. Before Paige could react, his leash slipped through her fingers, jingling a fading good-bye as he chased it, vanishing into the dark, eternal forest.
“Kobee! Come back here!” Paige took a few steps into the bush to follow him, but it was so dense she returned to the trail. “Kobee! Get back here this instant!”
Paige sat down, slapping her knees. Do something quick! But she was uneasy about leaving the serpentine trail that threaded along some of the most breathtaking terrain of Montana’s backcountry, a remote region known as the Devil’s Grasp, where the Rocky Mountains grace the northern reaches of Glacier National Park.
Minutes passed and still no sign of Kobee.
Taking a deep breath, Paige started into the woods after her dog. She found a branch for a walking stick. The skylight dimmed and the temperature dipped as she entered the dense stands of sweet-scented spruce and lodgepole pine. Tree limbs scraped at her face and arms, snagged and pulled at her jeans and backpack. Thick wild growth, practically impossible to walk through. But Paige kept moving, banging her walking stick against the trees and brush, feeling herself moving in a downward slope.
